Lost Sam
by staceycj
Summary: What happened to Sam in those 4 months that rendered him so different? AU since 4X09
1. Chapter 1

Blood. Blood was everywhere. Crouched in the center of the hard wood floor clutching an inert Dean, was Sam. Dean's legs were at an odd angle and his arms were limp against Sam, and there was so much blood around the older man. Pools of what Bobby could only assume was Dean's blood, were coagulating beneath the bow legs of the oldest Winchester.

"Dean." Sam murmured and rocked back and forth, much as Dean had when Sam had died back at Cold Oak and started this whole mess. Sam looked up and clutched Dean closer to his chest when he heard Bobby's boots come closer. Sam's face was covered in his brother's blood, and the longish hair that always seemed to be in Sam's doe eyes was matted together in clumps, drying blood serving as impromptu hair spray holding the hair in place.

"Sam." Bobby said quietly and crept closer to the young man. Sam sniffled and pulled Dean's corpse that much closer, Bobby watched as blood and gore oozed and dripped from Dean's saturated, tattered shirt, and onto the floor and Sam's legs. "Sam." Bobby tried again more quietly. "You need to get him out of here. You need to let him go. You are getting blood all over yourself." Sam shook his head quickly, and hugged his brother to him and Bobby had a flash of the six year old that would stubbornly sit at his kitchen table and refuse to eat his vegetables. This time, however, there was no Dean to coax him into doing what he needed to do. Sam was alone now or so he thought, Bobby had to convince him that he was there for him, and he was afraid that was going to be no easy task.

"Sam. The police will be here soon. They will take Dean away from you." That seemed to get Sam's attention. He looked down at his brother, and then back at Bobby. "You don't want them to do that son now do you?" Sam looked down at Dean's scared dead eyes and a tear slipped down his nose and dropped onto Dean's cheek. He nodded his head never taking his eyes from Dean's. Bobby thanked God silently for this small bit of sanity inside the broken boy.

"Let me help you get him up."

"No." he said thickly. "I'll get him."

"Ruby?"

"Leave her." Sam said coldly and he stood and helped his brother up into his arms and he carried the limp, rapidly cooling body to the Impala. Bobby heard a distinctive sob as Sam put his brother into the back seat, arranged his legs into a position that didn't look quite as unnatural as they could have, and closed the car door softly. When he turned around Bobby was shocked just at the amount of blood caked all over Sam. The blood didn't' disturb Bobby nearly as much as the bits of organs and flesh that clung to Sam's hands and shirt.

"You need to get cleaned up."

"No."

"Sam."

"No."

"Sam…."

"Fuck no!" Sam screamed and got into the car and drove without telling Bobby where he was going. Bobby muttered a curse and followed the enraged man and found himself immersed in another prayer begging that Sam wouldn't draw attention to himself, covered in blood and gore, and a dead body in the back seat of a muscle car.

For some reason unknown to Bobby Sam suddenly pulled off into a deserted area of Illinois. When the car rolled to a stop Bobby got out and went to the driver's side of the car and opened it. "Why are we here?"

"No more gas. Dean must want to stay here." Bobby sighed inwardly.

"Sam, let me put gas into the car, so you can get to a gas station, and let me fill up the car, we need to get back to my house. Dean wanted to be taken care of there."

Sam looked up and his eyes actually met Bobby's and the weight of sadness in them almost toppled Bobby over. "Dean wanted that? He say that?" he asked in a childish voice.

"Yeah, son, he did." Bobby felt a tinge of guilt in his stomach for lying to the man, but he had to. There was no way in the world that they were going to check into a motel in the middle of the night and clean up a dead body and salt and burn it out here.

Sam made no move, he just looked at his hands on the wheel and just as Bobby was going to head back to his car he heard, "Dean will be mad that I got blood all over the leather. He's constantly telling me to be careful. I should have listened." Bobby sighed and tried to not let the tears, that had been in a free flow while he had been following the Impala, slip down his cheek.

They got the Impala gassed up and between the two cars they had enough gas to fill up the tank. There was one perk to being a hunter; you always had gas and salt.

Sam wouldn't allow Bobby to help get Dean out of the car, or into the house, or up the stairs, or into the bedroom, or onto the bed. Sam laid his brother on the bed and he starred hard at the corpse. He refused to speak to Bobby, he refused to move, he refused to clean up, he refused to take care of himself. He simply sat there and starred at the corpse of the man who raised him and took care of him his entire life.

Bobby was pondering just how much more whisky he was going to need to dull the ach in his heart when Sam came into the kitchen, swaying on his feet. He had not changed out of the blood and gore soaked clothes, nor had he washed his hands and face. Bobby waited patiently for Sam to speak and was rewarded with, "I need hot water and a towel. I need to wash him."

Bobby, thankful that Sam was coming out of his grief induced stupor, nodded. Sam turned and his big feet seemed heavy as he shuffled out of the kitchen and back up stairs to his vigil over his dead brother.

Bobby entered the room of the dead, and handed Sam a basin of hot water, and a towel. "You get him cleaned up and I'll get the pyre ready."

'No." Sam said vehemently. "No."

"Son. He has to be salted and burned."

"No! No." He said and began to strip off his brother's shirts and jacket.

"Sam."

"I want him buried. I want there to be a body for him to return to when I get him out of hell."

"Sam, I don't-"

"Don't you fucking tell me that there isn't' anything I can do!" Sam yelled and looked at Bobby with a gaze that could have sent lesser men to their knees. "I can save him. I can do it. I will do it. I will burry him." Sam's furry oozed out of his words as he focused back on Dean's ravaged chest and leg. He started running the warm cloth over Dean's chest, he rinsed the towel in the basin and red permeated the liquid, swirling like food dye in water vinegar solution, waiting for an Easter egg to dye.

Bobby consistently changed the basin of water, and Sam never seemed to notice. He simply plunged the cloth in the water and softly, gently, reverently, washed away the blood from Dean's face, hands, chest and then gently washed his hair.

"There Dean. You're clean again." Sam sniffed. The tears were burning the backs of his eyes again. Putting the cloth into the water he stood and went to the duffel bag that was on the other bed. At some point, a point in which Sam could not recall, Bobby had brought in both duffels, not knowing which bag belonged to which brother and not brave enough to open them and find out. Sam knew though. Sam opened his brother's and pulled out a pair of jeans that Dean especially liked, a black tee shirt and his favorite green button up. It was a struggle to get his brother's torso wrapped in linen and then dressed, his body had gone rigid and stiff and unwilling to bend to the clothes But Sam was determined and he got his brother dressed and then he ran a hand through Dean's short hair getting to stick up in front just the way he liked it.

Sam pulled the amulet out from underneath the shirt and patted it down on Dean's chest and he starred at it for a moment remembering that Christmas again, and then he remembered the last Christmas that Dean ever had and tears started afresh, and he found himself taking the amulet from around Dean's neck and placing it around his own, the gold of the amulet tarnished by blood, just like the man who now wore it.

"I'll take good care of it." He said. "I'll give it back to you when I get you back." He said to the corpse and he sat there feeling totally and utterly lost, the guiding force in his life had been snuffed out and was suffering in hell for eternity.


	2. Coffin

Sam had hardly left Dean's side since they had hauled Dean's corpse back to South Dakota, but this morning, three days after Dean's death, Sam was missing. Bobby peeked inside the room that was serving as Dean's mausoleum, bent on getting Sam to eat something, prepared for a fight, expecting a fight, expecting to see Sam sitting in the chair next to the bed, with his hands clasped tightly underneath his chin, eyes intently starring at his brother as if he expected that by just watching him he would wake up and laugh and say 'just kidding Sammy', and rocking back and forth ever so slightly. However, Bobby didn't find any of that. He found Dean's body covered with a sheet, and the chair in which Sam had been watching over him sitting against the wall. Alarmed and confused, Bobby went searching for the only Winchester left standing.

Searching the junkyard hadn't been difficult but when he didn't see the tall man he became more frightened, Sam was so far from okay right now that he could be doing anything, from running away, to killing himself, to finding a crossroads demon and selling his soul or worse. The only thing that kept Bobby from completely coming apart was the fact that the Impala was still there, one of his trucks, however, was missing. Bobby called Sam's cell phone repeatedly, Sam never picked up. Frustrated, and unable to go back into the house with only Dean's corpse for company, he sat on the porch and waited for the return of the lone Winchester.

Sam returned some time later, and Bobby noted that he had pine boards inside the bed of the truck. He cut the engine, ignored Bobby's hollers, and started unloading his cargo.

"What are you doing?!" Bobby yelled for the fifth time. Sam finally seemed to see and hear him, and his head turned slowly towards Bobby. His eyes were so lifeless and dull that Bobby actually took a step back. He didn't know this boy. This was a body devoid of soul, of personality, devoid of life. He was simply going through the motions, simply breathing in and out, and the only person in the world that could make him a person again, was lying inside the house, with a sheet over him, dead.

"Building a coffin." Sam said delayed and started heading towards the back of the house and into the garage where Bobby kept his non car tools.

"Sam." Bobby started trying to keep up with the younger man's longer stride. "Sam." He tried again. "Sammy." Sam stopped dead in his tracks turned and looked at Bobby.

"Don't call me that. Sammy is dead." Bobby searched his eyes and found that he was right. Dean's little brother Sammy was dead, and in his place was something twisted with grief and desolate.

"You shouldn't be burring Dean. That's not what he would have wanted."

"He never specified. So I'm going to burry him."

"Sam. You shouldn't. What if something tries to possess his corpse?" Sam flinched when the word corpse was used.

"I know some spells. I found them…just in case." He stumbled the last.

"Sam. We need to salt and burn him like we did your daddy."

"He's not my dad." Sam said forcefully, vehemently. "He's not Dad. I can't watch him burn. He'll need a body."

"Sam. He's gone. He won't need his body ever again."

"He will when I find a way to bring him back."

"Sam. We won't ever get Dean back."

"Don't say that."

"Sam. We won't. It's just facts." Sam's breathing was getting faster and faster, his eyes filling up with an emotion that he just didn't understand. Bobby took a step back, he had a feeling that Sam was going to explode, and whereas Dean shoved him once when he had been upset, Sam was likely to kill him.

"I'm going to get Dean back." Sam said through clenched teeth. "I will Bobby. So if you aren't going to help me make his coffin, then get the hell away from me." Sam said and put the boards down on the work bench and selected a saw from the wall.

"Do you even know what you are doing?" Bobby asked resigned.

"Yeah." Sam lied.

"Do you know how big to make it?"

"Dean is 6'1 and ¾ of an inch without his boots. He is 6'2 and ½ with them on." Sam looked up and a tear slid down his face. "He will need his boots." He said in a whimper. "He has to have his boots." Sam said and put a hand to the amulet at his chest.

Bobby's own tattered heart bled for Sam. He relented, knowing that what they were doing wasn't the best, but it was the best for Sam. And Sam was the one they had to worry about right now." Okay Sam. Okay. Let's get this done." Sam took a deep breath, eyes darting from side to side trying to keep his teas at bay, pinched his lips together and nodded. And that is what the two men did silently all day, they built a coffin for a man who meant more to them than either of them realized, more than the dead man ever realized.


	3. Burial

Digging the grave kept Sam from going over the edge. Digging made him feel like he was on a simple salt and burn job. Digging released some of Sam's anger and put it into something productive. Sam dug with a fury and speed that was simply unheard of. His right wrist still twinged when he dug a grave, and his back had hurt him since Jake had plunged the knife into it and since then Dean did the heavy lifting. There was no Dean to do the heavy lifting anymore. Sam was no longer a little brother in need of his older brother's assistance, he was a grown man, a man who had to do things alone from now on, had to be independent and take care of himself. This was his first act as an independent man. So Sam was pushing through the pain. He was even grateful for the pain because it acted as a reminder of what his brother was suffering through right now. It was only a fraction, an infinitesimal fraction, of the pain and suffering his brother was enduring, and for that simple reason Sam pushed on, pushed through the pain, past the tears, past everything. He would do this for Dean. He owed Dean so much and this was only the beginning of Sam's repayment. Sam had a lot of work ahead of him, and this was only the beginning.

Bobby and Sam lowered the box containing its precious cargo into the ground and Bobby glanced at Sam to see if there were words to be said. There weren't. Sam simply picked the shovel back up and began spreading the earth on top of the box that was simple, crude, and lacking in ornamentation and polish.

Back at the house it had taken Sam over three hours to prepare himself to put his brother in the coffin and another hour to work up the nerve to put him in the back of Bobby's truck, secured with bungee cords instead of seat belts. Sam's hand shook when he got into the Impala and began the long drive to Illinois.

Bobby asked why Sam chose that spot, and why not somewhere on his back forty. Sam didn't want to tell Bobby that he intended to be doing some serious mojo to get his brother back, and he didn't want Bobby's house to be ground zero if the price was Sam's soul. He didn't want Bobby to be killed because the demons sent him on a mission to kill hunters. He wanted Bobby to have enough time to hear about it and be able to get away when the shit hit the fan.

Both lost in their thoughts, the two men stood beside the grave, each wondering if there were words to be said, if there were any words to be said. Dean was so many things to both of them, and Dean never realized he was worth any more than a weapon might be. Sam regretted never telling him just how important he had been in his life, and even while at Stanford he had missed his big brother. Bobby regretted never telling Dean he loved him, regretted never telling him that if he had had a child of his own he would have wanted that child to be exactly like Dean; selfless, loving, caring, and above all able to make a terrible situation bearable.

Sam was the first to turn away from the grave, the first to get into the car and drive away. Bobby knew that Sam wasn't going to be going back to his house, knew that he didn't want Bobby to follow him. Sam wanted to be alone, and no amount of pleading, yelling, and threatening was going to change that fact. Sam was the lone Winchester standing, and when Winchesters were alone, they liked to lick their wounds in silence. It was a trait both had learned from their Daddy and there was no way that Bobby Singer was going to be able to change that now.

"Dean, I'm so sorry son." He said as he heard the Impala growl away. "I'm so sorry for so many things."


	4. Talking to Himself

Sam took off in the Impala with no clear destination in mind. He just drove. Drove away from Bobby, from the grave, drove away from the brother who had died for him. Tears rolled unbidden down his cheeks and he struggled to keep himself from breaking down. Struggled to keep himself clear and able to drive.

He looked down at the steering wheel and saw his finger prints, finger prints made with his brother's blood, all over the wheel. His stomach twisted in a knot.

"Dean will be pissed if he sees the mess I made in his baby." He mumbled as he drove. "Dean said that if I get it washed I have to go to one of those places where you wash it yourself. Never let one of those automated things run their impersonal bubbles and felt over the car. Doesn't get her clean. Plus she's used to TLC. Remember that Sammy." Sam quoted aloud as he drove. He spoke the instructions verbatim. And in Sam's current state, it actually sounded like his brother's voice.

"Okay Dean. I'll get her washed. She needs a bath."

"Damn right she needs a bath. All of that blood in her. She needs that washed out. Can't have the seats ruined." Sam said out loud. But for Sam, it wasn't his voice. It was Dean's. Dean telling him what to do, guiding him, being his brother, being normal.

"I'll get her seats cleaned too Dean." Sam promised the empty air.

"You better Sammy. I spent a lot of time rebuilding her."

"I know Dean."

"You should have gone back to Bobby's. He could have helped you clean her up."

"I just couldn't stay there Dean."

"You should have."

"I couldn't!" Sam screamed and pounded the wheel. "Too much you."

"Like there isn't a lot of me surrounding you right now."

"But."

"But nothing Sammy. You should have.."

"You shouldn't have left me! You shouldn't have sold your soul!"

"I had to Sammy."

"Shut up! Just shut up! Just come back! Just stop! Just…"

"Just what Sammy? Not be me? Sorry dude, but this is how I am. Now remember when you wash the seats…"

"Stop it!! Stop it!!!" Sam had long since pulled over on the deserted road to continue the argument with himself. He pressed his hands against his ears and screamed wordlessly, shook his head, and stomped his feet, and finally started to sob. He fell to the side and curled up on the bench seat, his knees pulled as tightly against his chest as he could and just sobbed.

"Sammy, you have to let me go." Sam said aloud and heard only his brother's voice.

"I can't let you go Dean. I can't." He held the amulet close and continued to cry and something inside Sam broke. Something inside was completely destroyed, and the demons rejoiced; they had finally broken the mighty Sam Winchester.


	5. Alone

Squatting was nothing foreign to Sam Winchester, and now without Dean to hustle pool there was no money to do anything else, and he found that sleeping on a floor that was infested with bugs, and in which rats walked freely in the night was only fitting for a man who had killed his brother, mother, father, and girlfriend. A man that had no one left, that cut off all ties with anyone he had ever loved, because they would invariably end up dead, because of him, because of the tainted blood running through his veins, because he was too incompetent to save them, because he was Sam Winchester and that was just how his life went.

The rats scurried in the corner, and Sam laid there head on the floor, no pillow to support his neck, no blanket to keep the bugs off of his legs, tee shirt dirty, he hadn't washed his clothes in days, weeks? How long had it been since Dean made him go to the Laundromat? Three days before he died. Yeah, that was it. Three days before his birthday, and Dean died three weeks ago. Sam couldn't remember the last time clean water touched his skin or hair, and for the first time in his life, he didn't much care. He just laid there starring at the wall, waiting for the dark to subside so he could get up again, do more research, see if he could find out how to bust souls out of hell, see if he could find a way to get Dean's soul back into his mutilated corpse, maybe…maybe….there were just so many maybes, his head virtually swam with them.

He sat up, there was no use in trying to sleep anymore, no one was around, no one was there to care if he burned his eyes starring at a computer screen. When he was a kid, Dean made sure he was in bed by 9. Always, without fail. Dean always said that a brain the size of his needed a rest, and that it needed time to dream. Now, those dreams were nothing more than nightmares that left him feeling more alone then when he went to sleep. What he needed now was booze, something to numb his too large brain, something to kick it out of gear and let it just fall into a blissful state of emptiness. He moved to sit up and with the movements the rats scurried back to their corners, and Sam pulled himself up, grabbed the keys to Dean's car, because no matter what, the car was still Dean's, and left the home he had been occupying.

It didn't take long for him to find an all night bar; he had scoped them all out before landing in the abandoned house he was calling home for the last week. He pulled the car into a spot and opened his wallet, there was enough cash for a couple of beers. He needed more than that to take the edge off. He needed a lot more. He looked down at his wallet and realized that he had enough for a couple of beers. Looking up he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was a mess, hair was too long, beard, and eyes that were blood shot, eyes that looked sunken in and glazed. Hustling crossed his mind, and he decided that it wouldn't take much to convince these guys that he was a drunk and an easy mark.

He went inside and did his thing. He hustled pool like he never had before. When he was a teenager and Dean was in his early 20s, he had commented more than once how dishonest it was to take someone's money, and most of the time Dean had given his roguish smile and said 'well, Sammy, if people are stupid enough to bet, they deserve to be taken.' But there was a time or two when Dean had shrugged looked down at his winnings and said, 'We aren't like other people Sammy. We can't hold down a job and make honest money. At least it's better than the scams.' And he would get into the car and not say anything else. Sam understood now. He hadn't been the primary hustler when he and Dean joined forces again, he had been the look out, or the one sitting in the car fuming about having to do this again. But now, sitting in the Impala looking down at the six hundred he had earned, he understood what Dean must have felt, understood how horrible it would feel to have someone breathing down your neck reminding you constantly just how horrible what you did was.

"I'm sorry Dean." he whispered hoarsely to the car. Dean had abandoned him weeks ago, that voice that he constantly heard, knew was his brother, changed into his own voice, yelling at him, and echoing in the empty car. When he realized that it was his own voice and not his brothers, his heart broke again, his world got just a little bit smaller, and he pretty much stopped talking.

He went to the closest liquor store and stocked up with his winnings, filled up the Impala, because he had to take care of her, it was Dean's dying wish, he had to take care of Dean's baby. Once he had full take and several bottles of very strong alcohol he went back to the house.

After 12 hours of searching sources, looking for a way to get Dean out of hell, he sat in the middle of the floor, took another swig of the amber liquid---he didn't even know what he bought at the liquor store anymore, he just knew that it was doing its job, it was definitely numbing him.

His cell phone sat in front of him. Sam picked it up, held it for a moment, and put it back down, took another swig of the alcohol, looked at the phone again. Like an addict he picked it up and was unable to stop himself from accessing his voice mail. He tried to put the phone back down before he did it again, before he put himself through this hell. However, like an addict who was so enmeshed in his addiction he put the phone up to his ear just in time to hear the first voice mail:

"Hey Sammy, call me when you want to be picked up from the library. I think I have a lead on this thing we are hunting down. Call me." Sam's face crumpled and the tears started falling.

"Sam. Where are you? I'm sitting out here in the freezing cold waiting for you. Get you geek ass out here." He put the bottle down and he wrapped his arm around his middle as the sobs started in his chest.

"Sammy, Bobby called me back. He said that you need to call him, no clue why he called my cell instead of yours…probably because absolutely no one can ever get a hold of you on your phone." The sobs escaped his chest and he wailed, making a sound that was akin to a wounded dog.

"Sam. Take your phone off of silent." He laid down on the floor and pulled his legs to his chest and let the sobs take over as the voice on the phone said that there were no more messages.

"It's off silent Dean." he sobbed and fumbled with the phone to make it repeat the messages again. "It's off silent. Please…please…" He said as he listened to his brother talk to him.


	6. Help

Distraught. Discombobulated. Destroyed. Decimated. Desperate. Lonely. Suicidal. The entire demon community knew those words defined Sam Winchester. He had been to every single cross roads, killed many demons that resided there when they refused to deal with him. Gone to every devil's gate he could find and tried to unlock it, tried to march straight down into hell and get his brother himself, but of course, none of the locks would give, no matter how great of a lock pick Sam was.

They sent her, they armed her with words, with memories that would gain her admittance, and sent her to attack, to start slowly and work her way in, like a worm digging its way into a pure, shiny, red apple. Her mission was to taint the apple, to destroy it from the inside out. And she was more than happy to do this mission.

She found him sitting at a diner, starring at his food, not eating it, not drinking the water beside the plate, and ignoring the waitress, who was old enough to be his mother, who was clucking over him. She slid down into the booth in front of him and stole a French fry.

"Deep fried crack. I knew you loved them Sammy." She said with a smirk. Dead eyes slowly looked up at her. No reaction other than a long languid blink.

"What do you want?" he asked slowly, the words coming out thick and distorted.

"I thought you would be happy to see me." she grinned.

"You don't look like Dean. Why would I be happy to see you?"

She stirred the catsup with her French fry and smiled. "Because I have a message from Dean." Sam's eyes instantly came up. Instantly met hers. The deadness in them had vanished and was replaced with sadness, eagerness, and hope.

"What did he say?"

"I thought you didn't want me around."

"What did he say? Is he okay?"

She laughed a little. "It's hell. What do you think?"

Sam swallowed hard. "What did he say?"

"He needs your help." Sam almost felt relief flood his body. Finally, Dean had a way to get himself out of hell, he just needed Sam, just like he always did. Probably needed him to research something, and find something, to get him out, to get him back into his body, to get him topside and ready to help Sam fight these evil sons of bitches.

"Anything. Does he know how I can get him out?"

"No. That's not what he needs help with." Sam's brows drew together in confusion.

"What? What can I do for him then?"

"Lilith is planning something big. And he needs you to help him stop it."

Sam licked his lips. There wasn't a hesitation. Dean needed help, he would get it. "Okay. I'll do it. I just need you to point me in the right direction." He said and jumped up. Ruby smiled. Oh she would point him in the right direction, just not the direction he was expecting.


End file.
